The Bedouin were respected everywhere in the desert. Even a single traveller was usually left in peace, for he was likely to have blood kin across the whole region. The fundamental point of the blood feud is that it has to remain a credible threat, for it is by this means that men are dissuaded from killing, and Chaos is kept at bay. Dog rarely attacked dog unless desperate or sublimely certain of his superior strength. That was also why, since the Goras were clearly well-fed and watered, I did not expect the conflict to last much beyond another day or two. Now they believed reinforcements had arrived, they would almost certainly choose the better part of valour.
It was with a relatively easy mind that I sat down to tea with the pretty aeronaut while, visible below amongst the palms, the Goras argued over the day’s developments in high, declamatory voices. It was almost impossible to ignore the babble. I was suddenly reminded of taking a sunset supper on the balcony of Kruscheff’s in Kreshchatik, with the busy life of Kiev’s mainstreet going on below. I became nostalgic for my native trams, the colour and warmth of my childhood Ukraine and I would have wept in nostalgia rather than sadness, had it not been necessary to control myself, to remember I was a Bedouin and a gentleman. I still long for that Kiev. But it is a model today, like Nuremberg - an unconvincing Disney lifesize working replica of the great original. In the end, the communists destroyed both cities.
Renis le Juif et tu renieras ton passé.
I no longer worried that I might be hallucinating and lost in the desert. It was clear to me that this was either an elaborate illusion or that I had actually died. I had come, as the Bishop always puts it, to my reward. Yet, although Signorina von Bek’s scent was as subtle as her physical aura, and I was ready to enter any fantasy, I was not sexually aroused. Perhaps sensuality had become an over-familiar and rather horrible language to me. I was in a state of perfect platonic bliss, revelling without lust in the essence of her femininity as much as I enjoyed the quick amiability of her mind. I remained a little withdrawn, however, and as a result we kept a certain formality which was not uncomfortable. Indeed, we became quite cheerful as we discussed the accomplishments of fascism and the likely achievements of a reinvigorated Italian state. She knew my friend Fiorello. He was now a bureaucrat, she said. She apologised for the inadequacy of the shelter. ‘We had simply not anticipated needing it. It’s so hard to keep the sun off one’s arms and face. I freckle awfully easily. Of course, your women have the right idea. I can perfectly see the practicality of their clothes. The flies alone are bad enough. I hope I haven’t shocked you, sidhi, with my costume. I wasn’t really expecting a guest. But soon, of course, it will get chilly.’ She reached for her powder-blue cardigan.
I assured her that I was at ease with the ways of the West and she could rely upon my understanding. It was important, I told her, that mutual respect be established between human beings. The desert made brutes of some - I waved my soup-spoon at the shadowy quarrelling Gora - but it also demanded that, for survival’s sake, we maintain civilised discourse and behaviour.
Signorina von Bek agreed with considerable vigour. Standards were the key to everything. I was increasingly impressed by her quick wits. This woman was a true kindred spirit! We shared a fundamental political philosophy! In everything but appearance, she was a man! Myself! A perfect pal, especially under the present circumstances. As we sipped the claret and studied the agitated congress in the sun’s last rays, it seemed to me that she had adopted a certain coquettish air.
I was flattered by her interest but remained unaroused. The very thought of another’s flesh next to mine was almost sickening. Only Kolya or Uncle Tom had known how to soothe me. Sensing my reserve, she of course took even more of an interest in me. She was lady enough, however, to make only the subtlest hint by word or gesture and I enjoyed a growing sense of well-being. It was a timeless moment. I have never quite experienced the same combination of sensations and circumstance. I knew then that this was reality.
We finished our third cup of the arabien, the delicious scent of mint augmenting the more exotic odours, and I thought I heard again the faint sounds of singing. I strained my ears and peered into the gloom, wondering if it were only the breeze, but I was fairly sure I had caught a few notes of Tristan und Isolde. Even as my hostess chatted on, I cocked the other drum to discover the direction of the song, but the arguing of the Goras in the torchlight drowned everything. They were all looking towards the fissure, the oasis entrance, as if wondering whether to leave or perhaps to attack from another direction. They could see little of our ledge from their own position and could have no idea how many reinforcements I had brought.
She was speaking suddenly of Tokyo, which she had visited a year or two earlier with a League of Nations party. ‘There’s no doubt that intellectually the Japanese are at the head of the Mongol races. And, of course, racial purity is as important to them as it is to white people. Pure blood, as they say, will always triumph over mixed.’
Although only a year or two younger than myself, she was wiser than I. Women often attain maturity earlier. I have regretted not listening at the time more carefully to her ideas. It would have saved me a great deal of inconvenience and danger in later years. But then I was wondering if she had not provided herself with some kind of protective logic: an antidote, as it were, against her sexual attraction to me. For my own part I was almost incapable of innocent conversation. I had become responsive to nuance. I had developed the profound alertness of the hunted animal. I listened to her; I listened to the Gora; I listened to all the sounds of the desert, constantly interpreting yet, relative to earlier states, thoroughly relaxed. I had learned another migrant animal’s trick and took advantage of every secure moment, every chance to rest.
Again I thought I detected a tune on the wind, an aria from Tannhäuser, perhaps. This time I politely signalled to her, listening carefully. I began to suspect I was haunted by no more than a painful memory.
She asked what I heard, but I shook my head. ‘I was listening, I suppose, to the desert,’ I said.
She was impressed by this and for a while said nothing. It was not yet nine o’clock and the Goras had still failed to reach a decision. I was considering firing a burst from the mitrailleuse, to encourage them, when I saw that some of the blacks were coming back into their firelit camp pushing a prisoner, a bearded, wild-eyed creature, barefooted and in the torn burnoose of a Bedouin. His arms were bound behind him and a stick had been wedged in his teeth, tied with thongs to gag him. It was a moment before I recognised Count Nicholai Feodorovitch Petroff. He would, as he had promised, be the first white man to taste the waters of the Lost Oasis!
Now I understood the complexities of the Gora debate.
They were wondering if Kolya could be of any value to us. If so, with a hostage they might be able to barter, save face and regain their dignity before moving on. All that remained was for me to put down my teacup, walk to the edge of the basket, raise a large hurricane lamp and sign a greeting to the white-turbanned chief. ‘I believe,’ I said in my best Arabic, ‘that there has been a misunderstanding.’